


let's pretend we're no good for each other

by billy_crash



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M, Memory Loss
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 09:57:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6324613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/billy_crash/pseuds/billy_crash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dick does not remember him. Dick knows him, but he does not remember.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let's pretend we're no good for each other

**Author's Note:**

> story takes time somewhere after the rhato, but before rha and titans hunt

The lights are ridiculously bright - _blinding_ , even, and the pretending comes easily for him; Dick spent half of his life under the dazzling, scalding spotlight. You can't see faces and greedy eyes of the insatiable crowd below, hungry for any kind of entertainment. Dick blinks, and he can't see them here, just the blurred bored audience not interested yet in his performance.

He remembers the way world went dim and lost it's color when he was on stage, when he was smiling wide and his fingers were gripping the trapeze; they couldn't see the way his muscles were tensed when he was up there, they thought - _easy_ , they thought - their lives were getting brighter with every moment of a show, colored in blue (the one for his family), vivid orange (the one for the dome), green and yellow (patched walls of the circus).  
   
The floor was always neutral brown, so not to steal attention, and Dick remembers, Dick thinks, no, Dick _knows_ \- people watched the bright red, spilling over the brown, when his parents died, with the same greed, not even trying to separate tragedy from the performance. That was the way Gotham were, and still Dick stayed and defended her for almost a decade (he was green and red and yellow, smiling wide, fingers tight on the graple).

Dick has grown enough to know you don't need the spotlight to throw a performance, and the world goes dim and loses it's color every time he feels that he might let the bright red crawl in the back of his eyes as well.  
   
Dick has grown enough to forget what it meant when every one of his moves mattered, when every one of his moves was sincere. Dick has grown enough so even the closest to him could not notice when he was filling his body with lies and pretending. When it started to come so naturally for him.

The lights are ridiculously bright, blinding, even, the voice of Helena leads him through the blurred crowd - nameless, faceless, greedy as every crowd is to be, and they, who watches him through cameras, they think - it's easy, and Dick hides his fingers in the pocket of jacket, his smile does not show any tension, his eyes does not let out any sign of insincerity.

Dick is no longer a circus boy, Dick is a weapon. And the voice of Helena in his ear sounds sure enough that the weapon is _theirs_.

***

Dick does not remember him, he _knows_ he does not, but his fingertips are itching, his ribs are hurting, and there is something crawling up his throat that tastes like bitterness and anger and something close to friendship. Dick does not remember him, he should not, he may know who he is, but not in that way he feels in his insides, too vivid, too asphyxiating to just let it slip through his fingers.

He's seen Roy on snapshots, he's seen Roy in Gotham from the distance, he's seen him with Jason (still believes Dick has something good in him; Dick died, and that surely helps it), he's seen him with Kory (long since she stopped believing it, smart girl, alien girl, Dick deserves every one of the sunburns she left on his soul). They jumped the rooftops like careless children that have forgotten that floor is lava, that were happy to have it forgotten. 

Dick knows that Kory was with Jason. Dick knows that Kory was with Roy, Dick can see how the hell that has happened. Dick knows that Kory is with no one of them, Kory is in the place where sun is paying enough attention to her and people there are free and kind and don't ask her to be the things she is not. Dick knows Kory is doing well, and his fingers are shaking right now not for that reason, and even if he wants to touch something hot and red and burning, then...

But Dick does not remember him, he knows he does not, and only the way Roy is taking the glass of champagne from the waiter (he lingers away, but that is not _enough_ ) makes Dick move towards him.

Roy does not remember him, Dick can tell from his eyes, even though he is not hiding his face for that mission (Roy knows him, but that's different). But Dick still gently takes the glass from him, his other hand sliding along Roy's waist in a possessive gesture that has only one meaning in almost every culture. Roy shivers under his touch, and Dick thinks, returning the glass to the waiter - mine.

He does not have the time to avoid this word. And the strange thing is -  
it scares him not.

***

Roy feels like a prey.

His heart is beating painfully fast near his throat, not letting him breath properly. His skin goes cold and in a matter of seconds grows hot, heat spreading from the stranger's hand that is holding him firmly.

Roy can still smell the champagne and feel it's taste on his tongue, his throat clenching over the ghost of what it _might_ have feel like, to let go, just once (and then twice, three times; he knows he won't stop once started). 

Roy feels nauseous and sick with himself for not knowing other ways to fill the void that his friends left him with. Roy is not a hero, he is not an outlaw, he is a drunk in a cheap tux desperately looking for purpose. Desperately trying to throw himself at a deadly case, because the last time he did it, they came and saved him.

Roy is no good without them. Roy knows it. He was never good enough all by himself (and that thought claws at his mind harder than it used to for some reason; the same reason he wants to drink and cry and feel guilty, clutching at someone's shoulder; the same reason he can't stop the tremble in his fingers and the need to touch that someone).

Roy looks up at the stranger - and Roy does not know him. Not in a way it feels right to, not in a way his body aches to get closer, to be warm and safe and guilty, all the things Roy is sure he felt, but can't remember when.

"You are dead," he says, and Dick smiles, his hand flying up to his ear (he _knows_ this, knows that smile - it's not kind, it's dangerous, it promises no good, but people are too dumb to get it; it twists something in Roy's guts, and he likes that feeling).

"Yes," Dick says quietly, popping something between his fingers and throwing it on the floor (must be his com, but who was he getting orders from?). "I am dead. You are a worldwide known criminal. How about we won't tell these folks about it?"

"Then you should do something about that smell," Roy answers, and Dick looks puzzled and out of whatever persona he put on himself for a solid few moments. Roy's heart flutters over it (he can't fucking help it). "The Dead Robin smell. It might scare off all this clowns. Trust me, I am an _expert_."

Dick blinks, before covering his mouth with his palm in a rush, muffling the sounds of startled laughter. He looks amused (Roy feels proud; what the). Dick takes a breath and grins wide and after a few seconds he suddenly leans in to whisper in Roy's ear.

"So, funny guy. I guess we both need the same intel here," Roy shivers again at the sound if his voice so close (the words are _wrong_ , though, he has no idea why, but they are). Dick nuzzles in his hair tenderly (it tickles), so they would look just like stupid couple (that's the only reason; wrong; wrong). "The man we need has a hobby - he is _heavily_ into ruining happy pairs. He is also a leader of local drug ring and a lot of people went missing after his parties. Couples, actually. Not your regular jerk, this guy. I bet some serious Game of Thrones childhood trauma hidden here." 

"You are chatty," Roy says, realizing he somehow knew this already.

"Jelious?" Dick huffs, lips ghosting over the shell of Roy's ear. Roy shakes his head lightly to get rid of the strange dizziness he felt over this. "I'd say we pretend to be madly in love, then madly in fight over - let's say, your drinking problem. And see if we can get ourselves transferred to the guy's lovely basement."

"You've changed," Roy says unintentionally, not catching himself before the words leave his mouth. The surprise, bad kind of it - he feels it not because a person who does not know him mentions his drinking problem. But because (Dick used to care). Because (Dick helps his friends, not _uses_ them). Because (Dick feels off, Dick feels cruel, he is not supposed to-). "Fuck."

"I," Dick answers, confusion visible in his eyes. But he just shakes his head and tightens his grip on Roy's waist and asks with some strange determination. "Are you in or what?"

Roy does not answer this. He turns to face him and palms Dick's head, his nails scratching the back of his neck (out of a habit; it _has to_ hurt for them to remember) and then just kisses him (to be sure, _that's it_ ).

His lips part the moment he feels Dick's rushed breath warming them, and Dick tugs him closer like Roy would run away if he did not, and Roy tries not to lose himself over how every move he makes feels familiar, as if he's done it million times already (he has not). As if he knows what Dick likes (for Roy to tangle his fingers in his hair and kiss him so desperately as if he would rather die of the lack of air then let Dick go). As if he knows what Dick does not like (when he can taste whiskey on Roy's tongue, when they yell at each other, when Roy makes empty promises, when Dick finds him beaten and drunk near some dirty cheap bar).

Dick bites at his lip (he does that when he is angry) and Dick tugs at his long hair making him drop his head back and expose his throat (he does that when he is furious) and Dick kisses his neck and he whispers something against his wet skin and Roy feels vulnarable and worshiped (he does that when he loves him).

And then Dick just rests his forehead in the crook of Roy's shoulder, not looking up at him. Roy holds him, thinking about that glass of champagne and how Dick took it from him. Roy thinks about how lonely Dick feels, how tired and sad and empty. 

Roy knows better than to trust any of his smiles.

"I said you've changed," Roy says quietly, and Dick hums, before standing upright again. His gaze is intense and pained, even, but Roy can handle it. " _You did not_."

***

The lights are bright and blinding, the job is easy and they give the crowd quite a glamorous show.

Dick closes his eyes and bright red on the blue (the one for his family) does not make him feel anxious anymore.

Bright red (the one for the dumb boy, smarter than anyone Dick knows, with a heart too big and a life too messed up) makes him feel warm, even if he still does not remember.

Dick knows fake, Dick knows well pretending.

Around Roy he does not have to.


End file.
